


These Hands Weave Mercy

by Dangerousnotbroken



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Castiel in the Bunker, Emotional Sex, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches, Smut, negative self image, post hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 13:39:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3812548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a hunt, there's always a routine; a ritual. Everyone has those things they need to do after heads roll and bodies fall in order to feel normal again. Dean's routine used to be beer and TV, pretending everything was normal, pretending he knew what normal even was. Now it's just Cas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Hands Weave Mercy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Petrichor_Amber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petrichor_Amber/gifts).



> Happiest of birthdays to my lovely Petrichor_Amber! She wanted porn with feels, so without further adieu, I present to you this piece. I hope she loves it!!

It never happens like this. It’s never mellow, never sweet, and it’s rarely ever gentle. When they come together it’s always full of heat and desire. It’s not about want; it’s about a need so deep Dean feels it roiling beneath his skin, a need aching to be satiated. He’s never asked if it’s the same way for Castiel. He’s gone over it in his head a dozen times and each time he does the same conclusion is reached: either Castiel agrees, he feels it the same way, it lights him on fire, and they keep on as they’ve begun or Castiel doesn’t, it means something different to him, and then Dean has to deal with whatever conversation might come out of that. There’s too much uncertainty in talking about things. They’re not broken, so don’t try to fix them. Don’t mess with a good thing. Right.

This time though, it’s different right from the start. As soon as the door to the bunker shuts behind them and Sam disappears down the hall to shower or sleep or whatever it is he likes to do after a hunt these days, something different hangs in the air. Dean doesn’t try to put words to it but it’s there, clinging to everything and filling the space between them like it’s tempting Dean to make that space disappear. He makes a show of not giving in right away, though. He putters around the kitchen on tense limbs and puts on an air of calm that settles on his skin like a Halloween mask. Anyone who looks closely enough will know it’s a lie but it does well enough if seen from a distance. Castiel won’t stay distant for very long, of course, but it’ll do for now.

Castiel is still wearing his trench coat when Dean finds him sitting at the long table strewn with books and scrolls, staring into the distance like he can pull the secrets of the universe out of the aether if he stares at the solid brick walls long enough. Dean sets a sandwich and a beer down in front of him and Cas recoils like he’s been slapped, jolting out of whatever far-away place he’s let his mind drift to and flinching in fear or shock. His features soften when he sees the peanut butter and grape jelly in front of him though. It’s his favourite. Has been since the first time he came to this bunker seeking shelter. Turning him out had been one of the hardest things Dean has ever done for more reasons than he can ever speak aloud, but he can take some solace in the fact that Cas, at least, has forgiven him. He says he has, anyway. Dean has to take him at his word.

Castiel pays more attention to the sandwich than the beer, but when the last of the crust is gone and the smear of jelly on his finger has been licked clean, he takes a long gulp from the bottle. His fingers wrap deftly around the glass as he drinks deeply and Dean can’t help but watch the way his lips press against it, the way his throat moves as he swallows the amber liquid. Cas had an easier time adjusting to being human this time around, but in many ways it was harder on him. He knows what to expect this time. He knows how to take care of himself, what hunger feels like. He knows his limitations and he knows his strengths. But it’s permanent this time. He gave up the last of his borrowed grace with his own willing hands, and as far as any of them know, there’s a no refund policy in effect. If Dean had to guess, he’d say the finality of it is what makes the former angel so walled off, so pensive. He’s facing a future that he has no idea how to prepare himself for. That would make anyone introspective.

Dean doesn’t say anything when he clears their dishes and angles down the hallway towards his bedroom, but he makes eye contact as he passes and it must carry enough of a message because he hears the scrape of chair legs and the footfalls of Cas’ boots steady along the hard floor behind him. Cas ducks into the room only a moment after he does, closing the door and hanging his trench coat on a hook without even looking at Dean. He’s never talked about why he continues to wear that thing now that he’s human but he rarely ever leaves the bunker without it. Maybe they’ll talk about it someday. Not today though. He doesn’t look at Dean until they’re almost face to face, and only then does Cas open his eyes and look at the hunter before him, taking in the bruise on his cheekbone and the little cut that barely bled but still looks angry and sore on his forehead. Dean starts to speak but he doesn’t get a chance. Cas reaches up and cups a hand to the side of his face, such a small, gentle gesture, and leans in close to kiss him with lips so soft he barely feels their pressure.

Cas has never kissed him quite like this. They’ve shared countless kisses before. Feverish, heated ones when the adrenaline of a fight is still pumping fast through their veins, and wet, messy ones in the throes of passion. This soft, sensuous caress of lips though, that’s new. It takes the breath out of Dean’s lungs for a moment but the air soon rushes back in, mixed with the scent of Castiel and the taste of beer and grape jelly on his breath. Dean feels Castiel’s hand, the one that isn’t still resting against the side of his face, settle against his side and he flinches unintentionally.

“You’re hurt,” Castiel states with an abundance of concern in his voice. He pushes Dean back to sit on the bed and gestures at his shirt. Dean pulls his shirt up and off, flinching again when the motion pulls at the seeping wound at his side.

“It’s not that bad,” Dean says, and really, it’s not. Dean has endured much worse. He barely noticed he’d been cut until Cas touched the wound. He’s getting pretty good at working through pain these days; there’s always something.

“It shouldn’t need stitches,” Cas muses almost as if he’s speaking to himself. He examines the wound closely, carefully. It’s already mostly closed up, scabbed over and doing what the body does to fix itself, but Castiel still sighs as he stands. “I could have fixed it.” Dean blinks, taking in the weight of the statement in silence. “If I still had it. I could have fixed it.”

It takes Dean a moment to realize he means his grace. Once, the man before him was so powerful he could smite a demon easy as breathing. His very voice shattered glass and moved the earth. The majesty of his grace saved Dean’s own life more than once. It’s no wonder Cas speaks with sadness now. Dean knows he should say something. The silence is too oppressive. Everything he can think of feels a little too empty for the moment, however. He doesn’t want to offer platitudes. He wants to offer something real, something profound. Nothing comes to mind though, so he just repeats himself.

“It’s not that bad.” Cas just smiles sadly and presses ginger fingertips just where the slash crosses Dean’s ribs. Everything he does now is so much softer. His palm rests on Dean’s thigh as he stands but there’s no weight on it, just the warmth of his hand flowing through the worn denim. He guides Dean down to lie across the bed with a single touch, barely felt, a suggestion more than a command, and once Dean kicks his boots off, Cas removes his pants with the care and attention of a doctor removing a dressing, so cautiously inspecting the skin beneath to make sure it’s not bruised, not broken, not bleeding. And there are probably bruises aplenty but nothing that gives Cas pause, because he stands to shed his own clothes, soon climbing onto the bed without a stitch on him to lie beside Dean and trail fingertips over the tense muscles in Dean’s arms.

The tender attention is nice, for a moment. Dean doesn’t mind being touched with soft hands, being caressed, being adored. Even as Cas’s lips find Dean’s again his hand keeps moving and it leaves warmth and worship in its wake. It’s nice for a while, letting Cas shower him with affection. For a few moments Dean can let himself relax under the touches and just focus on how his skin reacts to the touch, how everything feels just a little bit better with Cas there. Slowly but surely though, Dean’s brain takes over as it always does. He thinks too much. Cas has told him this time and time again but it doesn’t change anything. The peace he gains from all the gentle little touches starts to recede and it’s hard not to wonder what’s behind them.

Cas is human now, and bound to earth like Dean is, but there’s still nothing tying him to the bunker. He’s got a car of his own. He knows how to take care of himself. Any day now, Cas could decide he’s had enough of the fighting, of the killing, and strike out for points unknown. He’s given up so much for the Winchesters; it’s only a matter of time before he realizes he doesn’t have to give anything else in service of their cause. And then Dean won’t have any more nights like this, drowning his sorrows in the feel of Castiel’s hands, his lips, his body.

And he won’t have Castiel anymore. He won’t have the imposing force of the former angel watching his back when things go bump in the night. He won’t have someone he can rely on in a fight. He won’t have someone he can sit silently with and just _be_. It’s inevitable. Cas isn’t going to stick around forever, and Dean had to have known it for a while now, but the admission turns his gut to ice and he flinches under Cas’ touch.

Castiel moves his lips away from the nipple he’s lavishing attention on, stilling as he catches Dean’s eye. “You’re hurting,” he says, and it doesn’t take explanation for Dean to understand that he’s not talking about the slash on his ribs anymore. He doesn’t respond, just holds Cas’ gaze for the longest of moments, letting himself be weighed and measured. Cas takes his silence for confirmation which, in a way, it is. “This, I can fix I think. If you’ll let me try.” Dean nods slightly, swallows, and lets himself be manhandled as Cas leans back against the headboard and pulls Dean into his lap.

His breath comes in sharp gasps as Cas works him open. Like everything else, his touches are gentle, and Dean wants to urge him to go faster, harder, but there’s something in the way Cas is kissing that says he wouldn’t listen even if Dean begged for it so he doesn’t. He breathes in Cas’ scent and groans at the burning stretch, and when Castiel pushes a third finger in and twists just so, he drops his head to Cas’ shoulder and moans.

“It’s OK Dean,” Cas murmurs, his voice low and raspy. “I’ve got you.” And he does. His other hand grips Dean’s hip tight, grounding him, holding Dean steady. It tethers him, keeps his head in the moment, and when Cas asks if he’s ready Dean can only nod in response. Words are beyond his ability now. The hungry look in his eyes is answer enough. Cas guides him gently, lines himself up, and Dean’s entire world is narrowed to the incredible feeling of Cas filling him up inch by inch. He sinks down as slowly as his legs will let him and he savours every little bit of it, the slide of skin on skin, the way Cas’ hands tense when he moves, the little gasp he gives up when he finally settles on Cas’ lap, having taken in every last bit of his lover’s length. Dean is still for a moment, just to collect himself before he gets down to what they both really want, but Cas just gathers him up in his arms, draws him close against his own bare chest, and kisses the resolve clean out of him. Dean sighs as their lips meet, a pleased noise he makes without meaning to, and Cas feeds it back to him in harmony. It’s a sigh of comfort, a sigh of connection. It says that Cas feels what Dean feels, and wants what Dean wants, even if just for this moment.

It’s not until Cas brings a hand up to caress Dean’s stubbly cheek that he realizes there’s a tear rolling down his face. Cas swipes it away with the edge of his thumb and holds Dean’s face steady until he can’t help but open his eyes and meet Cas’ gaze. There’s mercy in his eyes, mercy and tender affection, and Dean drowns in it. Cas smiles softly after a moment, still not breaking that gaze, and rolls his hips upward just enough to draw Dean’s attention. He takes the hint and starts to rise up and sink down in a slow and lazy rhythm and a collective sigh leaves their mouths once more. Castiel continues to cradle Dean’s face, keeping their eyes locked together, and his other hand plants firmly on Dean’s hip, his long fingers gripping the firm muscle of Dean’s ass. They move together, Dean rising and falling on Cas’ dick with his hands planted on Cas’ shoulders, Cas rising up to meet him each time he sinks down, and their eyes perpetually locked because Cas won’t let Dean look away.

“You’re beautiful,” Castiel murmurs. His breath is hot against Dean’s skin and it makes him shudder. “I don’t know why you can’t see it.” Dean doesn’t want to reply. He wants to close his eyes and lose himself in being filled up by Cas, wants to narrow his focus until all he can think about is the sex, the physical, but Cas won’t let him break away. If he tries to turn his head even slightly, Cas’ hand is there steadying his jaw, holding him steadfast, and the eyes that stare back at him are so warm and inviting that even when Dean blinks he feels guilty for looking away. So he keeps his eyes open, stares back into Cas’.

“How did I ever get so lucky?” Dean fails to see the luck in it. Cas was forced into his life; forced to rescue Dean, forced to work with Dean. If anything, it’s a misforturne. Cas will see that someday. He has to. It’s obvious. If these thoughts are painted on Dean’s face, Cas chooses to ignore them. Instead, his hand leaves Dean’s hip and slides between their bodies. He takes Dean’s cock in hand and starts stroking him slowly, an intentional arrhythmia with the roll of Dean’s hips, and all Dean can do is groan. His eyelids flutter, his mouth hangs open, but still their eyes are locked.

“How can I ever make you see what I see?” Cas sounds almost pleading. His lips are so close, all Dean has to do is lean in just a little and he can claim them, and then he’ll have to stop speaking. He’ll have to stop saying the words Dean can’t handle processing. Only he can’t, because those depthless eyes have him transfixed, and looking away from them would be anathema. The rough slide of Cas’ hand is just enough of a distraction, working tirelessly as it brings him closer and closer to orgasm. It’s too perfect, the feeling of it, almost overwhelming. He’s so full, drawn taught like a bowstring, and every touch of Cas’ hand, every time Cas moves in him makes him thrum with pleasure. It’s all Dean wants, this sensation; this closeness. This is all he ever wants.

Cas seems to sense this. His hand moves faster now, falls in rhythm with their hips. He never ceases his praise though, never breaks his eyes away. It’s a soft litany of _perfect_ and _beautiful_ and _mine_ as Dean takes him in over and over. His breath comes in ragged gasps, and sweat coats his brow, and there’s a burning in his thighs that he will feel as keenly as the cuts and bruises he bears, but that is a problem for tomorrow. Right now, there is only Dean and Cas, moving as one.

Dean’s resolve finally breaks when his climax washes over him, a shuddering wave of pleasure that locks up every muscle in his body. Only then, as he spills over Cas’ hand do his eyes flutter closed. He moans then; how could he not, the way his body feels? Cas keeps them moving the whole way through, driving himself into Dean as his orgasm crests and recedes, and when Dean’s eyes open again, Cas is still watching him with wonderment and reverence in his eyes. Cas comes not long after. His mouth hangs open in silent pleasure when he does, but he never stops looking into Dean’s eyes.

Minutes later, when they’re a tangle of sweaty limbs and sheets, Castiel holds Dean close to his chest and presses kisses into the mess of his hair. “In all my life, in all the countless years I’ve lived, in all of heaven and earth, you are my favourite thing.” Dean is silent. He is deathly still. He lets Cas hold him and kiss him and speak to him, but he can’t bear to acknowledge the statement.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Castiel’s voice is soft and kind, and Dean shakes his head almost imperceptibly. How could he believe? Castiel is heaven’s majesty made manifest; or at least he was, before he gave it all up. Before Dean ruined him. How could Castiel ever favour this broken human, this flawed and faulted man, when he could have so much more.

“No,” Castiel replies gently. “Of course you don’t. You never believe the best of yourself. Only the worst.” He tilts Dean’s face up, kisses him softly. It’s a kiss full of affection, and Dean can almost believe it. “Well then, I guess I’ll just have to keep trying to convince you.”

Dean smiles. It barely changes the shape of his mouth, but it’s a smile all the same. It’s not for the convincing; he’s not entirely certain there’s anything Cas can do that will change his mind about his own worth, his own value. It’s for Cas. Because if he’s going to spend his valuable time, his now very limited days on earth trying to convince Dean that he’s a thing of value, then that’s more nights that Dean gets to spend like this, wrapped up in his arms, and more days spent hunting with Cas for company. It’s more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and more of that trench coat, and more stolen kisses when they think no one is looking. Dean may not think very highly of his own self, but these are things he values, and if Cas values them too, then maybe things are going to be ok.


End file.
